Sweat, Part 1

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 1

Aida’s life was, if anything, comfortable.

She enjoyed more freedom than anyone she knew - although to be honest, she didn’t know that many people. Mrs. Strickland, her handler, worked most of the day taking care of her and so many other people in the company. But she didn’t have much of an outside life, and Aida was pretty sure (or at least she hoped) she didn’t have children. Mrs. “Strict-land” enjoyed her nickname way too much.

Dr. Valiant was reasonably happy, too, but Aida thought there was something wrong with her. Something that made her worry so much. Something that adorned her hazel eyes with a crown of crow’s feet and shot the green-and-gold irises through with pain. Aida liked her visits with Dr. Valiant. She was the most compassionate of her “family,” and Aida loved to hear her talk about her kids. Danny and Rachel, ages 2 and 4, a young boy and his older sister. Aida sometimes wondered if the something that worried Dr. Valiant was her children, but as much as she prodded she could never get any substantial information from her. Aida was happy with their friendship, which she sometimes imagined was more like having a close cousin than a longtime doctor, but she wished they were closer.

Mr. Morris was likable. Whenever he presented Aida with missions briefings, he was overly enthusiastic, to the point that his round, bald head would shine with the sweat of excitement. He would wipe it with the same kerchief he kept in his pocket and say, “Aida, do we have a rad assignment for you!” But he was always quick to get to work and quick to leave with a brief, strong shake of the hand. He was all business, and then he was all gone.

In fact, the business was the only part of her life that Aida wasn’t overly fond of. There could be fun parts, sure. Flying to new locations and kicking bad guy butt was always a thrill. But she supposed everyone had to work for their share of life - and that was just how she did hers. She just wished she didn’t have such short notice for life interruptions.

That was why she wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Strickland called her loft late Saturday night in the middle of a Friends marathon to warn her of an incoming mission.

“But I can’t leave now! How am I supposed to work not knowing what happens with Ross and Rachel?” Aida whined into the phone.

“They get together, they break up, they get together again, blah blah blah,” Mrs. Strickland snipped. “There are more important things than television, Ms. Rosenbaum.”

Aida whimpered. “But . . . but . . . Please, Mrs. Strickland?” She pounded the hand still holding the remote down into the lush, golden folds of her down comforter. Her widescreen television, which filled the wall opposite the queen sized bed, flickered with a billion silent colors; she had put it on mute when the phone rang.

She heard a prolonged, aggravated sigh on the other end of the line. She bit her lip hopefully. “All right,” Mrs. Strickland answered. “I’ll get someone to record it for you. You’ll be able to watch it all when you get back from your mission.”

A huge, self-satisfied grin spread across Aida’s face. She leapt to her feet and did a little jig on the bed. “Thanks, Mrs. Strickland! I owe you one!”

“You owe me more than that, young lady,” she replied, but Aida could hear a small grin and eye roll through the growl. “Now stop jumping around and smarten yourself up. Mr. Morris is on his way now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aida replied. She dropped the remote, stepped down onto the blue and white fur rug, and looked over her shoulder at the little black ball of plastic in the corner where the camera was mounted, not even bothering to hide itself in the vaulted ceiling.

“Oh, and keep it modest this time,” Mrs. Strickland added as Aida crossed the spacious studio apartment. “We are professional businesswoman, Ms. Rosenbaum, not washed up pageant girls begging for work.”

Aida rolled her eyes and ran her free hand along the rows of clothes hung in the walk-in closet, feeling the swish and shimmer of materials under her fingers. “Right. So more The Proposal Sandra Bullock and less Miss Congeniality?” There was a short silence on the line. Aida guessed Mrs. Strickland was deciding whether to look up those references or just go with it.

“Yes,” she said curtly. She hung up abruptly.

Aida laughed. “Too easy,” she said. She shook her head, put the cordless phone down on the enormous shoe rack in the back of the closet, and turned back to the racks of clothes in all colors, textures, and styles. She put her hands on her hips, looked around carefully, and then sprung into action like a pageant girl with a great job earned by raw talent and well-honed skill. 

Time to work for her money. 

 TO BE CONTINUED!